


Another Life

by taylocrow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark!Sansa, Dead Robb, F/M, Implied abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Modern AU, Sad, Sweet!Jon, im torturing myself and taking you all down with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 16:06:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11901252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylocrow/pseuds/taylocrow
Summary: "In another life, I would be your girl."Jon loves Sansa's rough edges and Sansa finds peace in his arms. Maybe if things weren't so messed up, they'd be together.





	Another Life

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance. PLEASE heed the warnings and tags on this story. This is a rough one I posted to Tumblr a few months ago. 
> 
> Also: I tagged underage but I'm never specific about Jon's age really so you can do whatever to make yourself more comfortable.

It’s seedy and stupid but Sansa can only equate herself to a piece of shit and can’t think of a good enough reason to stop his wandering hands. It doesn’t matter anyways.

  
“ _It’s all your good for._ ” The words from months ago still play on repeat every time she gets herself into these situations.

  
Theon Greyjoy’s hands are clammy and damp as one slithers up her shirt and the other grips at her thigh. Her head lulls against the siding of the house while he uses his thigh to part her legs. It’s hard to differentiate the music from inside the house from what’s being played outside in the backyard. Trash litters all around her feet and a throaty moan passes Theon’s lips while licking her ear.

  
Joffrey’s hands had been small and needing.

  
Ramsay’s had been the ones to ruin.

  
Sandor’s hands were sweet and rough.

  
Peytr’s hands were quick and sneaky.

  
One after the other after the other.

After all, _it was all she was good for._

  
The alcohol in her system makes her warm and dulls the ache of loneliness. Theon’s presence does little to make her feel any less hollow. He’s whispering things as he gropes and kneads but all she can smell is the Crown Royal on his breath. From a bottle that he had no doubt stolen from his Dad’s basement, not that his father would care anyways.

No one’s parents care any more.

  
Once upon a time. Theon had been Robb’s friend. It was hard in a small town for everyone not to just mush together in a mass of memories and school yard days. Sansa used to pass Theon Greyjoy in the hallways of school every day when they both attended Winterfell High. Back then, Theon was too busy having his clammy hands up other girl's shirts to ever look at her twice. Now he was about to be a sophomore in college and she was ready to start her senior year at Winterfell and just get the fuck out of here.

  
Robb used to think Theon was the funniest guy on the planet, and that his humor was enough to make up for all the shitty things he did and said. He’d defended his friend throughout the years, even getting in fights for the guy, and here he was with his paws all over his dead best friend’s little sister.

  
She wonders if he feels guilty as he sucks at her neck.

  
“Sansa.” There’s a stern voice that causes Theon to yank himself away.

  
“Snow.” He snickers but Sansa thinks better than to move a muscle.

Theon closes the gap between them once more and he challenges Jon with a stare down, “What is it?”

  
“Get out of here Greyjoy. Now.” He’s glowering, snarling, and his fists repeatedly clench and unclench at his sides. Just like they had when they lowered Robb’s casket into the freshly dug-

  
“Or _what_?” Theon’s sharp voice snaps her from her thoughts, “She’s not yours Snow.”

  
Theon’s body heat is gone in seconds after that, and Sansa finds herself almost shivering against the wall. It’s balmy in the summer heat and she’d bet anything that she’ll wake up to a nasty pattern of mosquito bites all over her exposed skin. She stares at the stars and doesn’t bother to fix her unbuttoned shorts, Jon has seen her before.

 _He’s_ _seen all of her before_.

  
“Sansa.” Jon’s voice is gravelly and broken.

  
“Jon.” Her eyes fall to his bloody knuckles and she watches them unfurl to offer her his hand. “Come on.” He gently waves her away from the side of the house like a skittish deer.

  
Sandor had called her a bird once.

  
“You shouldn't have to do that.” She doesn’t budge.

  
“I wanted to.” Jon keeps his arm extended, “I’m sorry if you were having a good time with him.”

  
“You’re not sorry.” Sansa recalls every time his fist had cracked against Ramsay’s face. The look on his face then was the same one he’d had on now: proud, scared, and pissed. A sickening combination to display across his lovely stoic features.

  
“I’m not.” He’s always been sad, but losing Robb did to him what it did to her. Completely gutted him out and bleached all his insides into a brand new man. Last year they just so happened to both be at Theon’s house party and Robb offered to pick them up when he got off work. It’d been pouring rain and the tractor trailer couldn’t brake fast enough.

  
His body was mangled and bloody against the tree trunks when the paramedics pulled him from the wreckage. Jon hadn’t really laughed since and Sansa couldn’t find a single reason to either.

  
She reaches out and grabs his hand. Jon pulls her under his arm and plants a worried kiss to the crown of her head. “You can’t save me every time.” Sansa whispers.

  
“I’ll do it every time I can.” Jon hisses as he clenches his bloodied hand around her shoulders and walks her to his car.

  
Tonight she’ll sleep beside him and they’ll stare at his ceiling together but won’t say a word. He’ll take her home in the morning and her parents won’t speak a word of it. If they ever notice she was missing in the first place.

  
“Thanks.” Sansa finally speaks when they return to his apartment. It’s small and crammed with belongings and old room decorations of he and Robb’s freshman dorm. Cheesy Sports Illustrated models and beer posters that Sansa can’t imagine Jon picking out himself.

  
He nods solemnly as he passes her a neatly folded t-shirt from the top of his laundry basket. Sansa peels off her teeny tiny jean shorts, tank top, and bra in a few swift movements. Jon looks away like he’s never seen a girl in his life. Sansa is silently grateful, and then she grabs his hand to take him to his bathroom.

  
She pulls out the Neosporin and points to the sink. Jon silently starts the water and only flinches when she squirts the soap onto his exposed knuckles. As delicately as possible, she washes his solid, strong hands and watches as the the crusted dirt and blood circle the drain of the sink. His lips are parted and his eyes hazy as she gently dries his hands with a fluffy navy towel.

  
“Thank you.” His voice is thick when she finishes applying the Neosporin. Sansa flashes him a small smile and nods. Jon leans forward to trace her cheek bone with the pad of his thumb.

  
“Let’s go to bed.” Sansa speaks and he immediately drops his hand from her face.

  
He follows her to his own bedroom and lies beside her atop his plaid comforter. Jon's television illuminates his organized bedroom. Robb's presence is less obvious in this room as opposed to the other parts of his apartment covered in framed photographs. Sansa’s eyes begin to grow heavy, her exhaustion catching up with her. 

  
“Theon’s right. You’re not mine.” Jon’s voice comes as a surprise to her. Enough for Sansa to open her eyes and look over at him. Jon’s eyes don’t even flit away when she raises an eyebrow, silently asking him to expand.

  
“You could be. If you wanted to be.” Jon looks like it’s taking every ounce of him to keep looking at her. It makes her feel sick.

  
“You don’t want that.” Sansa looks back to the ceiling and she feels him prop himself up on his elbow to stare down at her. “I do.”

  
“You say that because I’m not yours. You’re only saying that because you hate how there are other men wanting me.” Sansa keeps her eyes on the ceiling and tries to fight out the memory of Ramsay sweaty face beaming down at her.

  
“That’s true.” Jon shocks her once more, but this time she keeps her eyes trained on the stucco ceilings.

  
“I don’t want these shitty men treating you the way they do. You don’t deserve that, Sansa.” His words hang heavy in the air for several moments.

  
Because it’s not true. If Sansa hadn’t gone out that night, Robb would still be here. If she hadn’t begged him to take her shift at the restaurant that night, maybe she’d be the one safe underground. She wouldn’t have to keep on with this ache, the pain strangling her family, the dark circles beneath her parent’s eyes. The loss of their first baby.

  
“Sorry.” Jon settles down beside her and Sansa forces herself to remain still as he fidgets with his pillow.

  
“I’ll always wait for you. If you wanted that.” Jon clears his throat, “Or if you don’t. I think I’ll always be yours.”

  
Sansa reaches for his hand in the darkness to give it a tight squeeze. Because maybe in another life, she would be. She’d be his and he’d be hers and they’d come to this bedroom to make love and give each other good morning kisses. Nothing like the frantic, desperate fucking they’d been at since Robb was buried. In another life, her brother would be alive to be grossed out for Jon wanting to get with his little sister and then be the best man at their wedding.  
Or maybe if Robb was still above ground, this wouldn’t even be happening in the first place.

  
Jon squeezes her hand once more and then scoots closer to rest his head on her shoulder.

  
In another life, she’d be his.

**Author's Note:**

> Going to cry now bbyyyeee


End file.
